The Good Touch
by The Red Hoodie
Summary: Three times Stiles and Derek touched lips and one time they kissed.


**Disclaimer:** I own none of the characters or the places unique to these fandoms. I do own any original storyline ideas that come up within this writing.

**Title:** The Good Touch  
**Author:** The Red Hoodie  
**Rating: **PG  
**Characters:** Derek Hale, Stiles Stilinski  
**Ship:** Derek/Stiles  
**Summary:** Three times Stiles and Derek touched lips and one time they kissed.  
**A/N:** Needed some fluff. Started as a hand-licking kink fic but turned into flufferyness.  
Beta'd by the amazing, brilliant, flawless Emma (even if I didn't keep all her edits *cough*).

88

**The Good Touch**

.1

It was the first training session with Jackson and Lydia insisted on coming to watch. Derek usually never allowed humans—meaning Stiles—around when he was teaching the Betas, but she was Lydia, and she could always get her way so that left Stiles alone in Derek's hole of an underground train station, bored out of his mind.

He was pretty sure if he didn't do anything in the next ten minutes, he was going to tear his own skin off.

But there was really nothing to _do_ in an abandoned train station. Except…his eyes flickered to the side, to one of the monstrous wire spools that served for tables. On one of them sat Lydia's handbag. It was an enormous thing, filled with god knows what. And Stiles was itching to go through it.

It wasn't some sort of pervy thing. Sure, he still carried a torch for her, but this was entirely just the need to do something before he caused himself bodily harm.

Stiles sat, legs bouncing up and down for twenty seconds before he rocketed across the space and poised his hands above the bag.

"I shouldn't," he said aloud, knowing the wolves were far enough away out in the woods doing wolfie things that they wouldn't hear him. "Oh god, I am so going to hell."

Stiles unzipped the bag with one quick motion, the noise sounding deafening in the empty space. He actually froze and waited for a good thirty seconds before prying apart the sides and looking in.

He wasn't stupid. His dad had warned him once, "never go through a woman's purse, son, just don't." Usually—well, _sometimes _at least—he heeded his father's words but he had already unzipped it, so he was halfway there.

And it was Lydia's bag, how many bad things could be in there? He didn't actually take anything out, he just fished around.

"Wallet…makeup…more makeup…Jesus Christ, how much makeup does she need?" Stiles managed to push it all aside and found the _forbidden_ pocket with all sorts of gross girl things that must have been what his father was warning him about. He made a face and was about to back away slowly and go smash his fist into a train car, but he spotted something at the bottom of the bag.

It was jewelry. Like, a whole little sparkly hoard.

"Was she a crow in another life or something?" he muttered. There were bracelets and extra earrings and about ten different rings. Rings. "Oh-ho, Stiles, stop that. You are not going to do that. Nope."

He bit down on his tongue and shook his head, ready to walk away and pretend that he hadn't just gone through Lydia Martin's purse, but he was _so bored_.

Two minutes later, Stiles still had his hands in the bag when a door clanked open and Derek walked into the dimly lit place. Stiles suddenly sprang back, hiding his hands behind him. There was a bit of dirt smudged around Derek's face and arms.

"What…how was training?" Stiles asked, voice rising embarrassingly. He cleared his throat.

"Fine. Lydia didn't get in the way, surprisingly," Derek muttered, stopping a few feet away from Stiles.

"Where is everyone?" Stiles peeked around the Alpha, but he didn't hear the normal rowdy group of Betas that usually followed behind Derek.

"Showing off. What's the matter with you?"

Stiles' eyes snapped to Derek's. "What? Nothing is wrong."

Derek gave him a look that said he should know better than to lie to a werewolf. "Your heartbeat is off the charts." He took a step closer. "Why are you hiding your hands?"

"No reason," Stiles lied. He couldn't even back away, because there was a pile of crates behind him. Great.

"Stiles…"

It didn't take much for him to cave. "Uh…okay, look, fine, I was super bored and I went through Lydia's purse and _this_!" He pulled his hands out from behind him, and there on his left ring finger, was a ring. Nothing blingy, thank _god_, but it was there.

Derek actually laughed. It was more like a huff of air gusted from between his lips, but it was a laugh nonetheless.

"Derek! Don't laugh at me, you dick," Stiles muttered, looking down at his hand. "It's stuck. I've been trying to get it off for ages."

"Do you…do you want help?" Derek asked, faint amusement hanging onto his normally grumpy face.

Stiles shrugged, flinging the hand in Derek's direction. "If you've got some sort of super-Alpha-power that makes you able to un-stick things, have aaaaaa—"

Derek had taken Stiles' hand and done something that Stiles was _not _expecting; like ever in a million years. It was only happening because hell had just frozen over.

Derek Hale had his lips around Stiles Stilinski's finger.

That's right.

Stiles' finger was in Derek's mouth. And it was all very intense because Derek was looking at him, right at him. It was like awkward sex, minus the sex.

Stiles couldn't breathe or move, because Derek's teeth were pressed against his finger and he could feel Derek's tongue and holy god he was aroused more than he should be.

It couldn't have lasted for more than ten seconds, but it felt like an eternity.

Derek's teeth scraped over his skin, and Stiles' heart pounded like a drum and then Derek slowly—fucking asshole—pulled Stiles' finger out of his mouth, ring-less. Stiles just sort of stood there, stunned, mouth agape, praying his boner wasn't showing. Derek blinked and plucked the ring out of his mouth.

Stiles was speechless, for the first time in his life, and mechanically reached out to take back Lydia's godforsaken—or hidden gift? he wasn't sure now—jewelry. "Derek—" he wasn't sure what he wanted to say but, either way, he was interrupted by the sudden commotion of the werewolves coming back. Stiles dove for Lydia's purse, tossed in the ring—now covered in Derek DNA—and zipped it, before stepping back.

He tried to look as if Derek had not just sucked on his finger—okay, Derek didn't _really_ but it was close enough—and forced an awkward smile, running a hand over his hair and flopping back on one of the crates as Derek nonchalantly walked off into one of the train cars.

.2

The Hale house was no longer a pile of rubble; it had walls and ceilings and floors that weren't charred. The pack spent most of their time there now. And why not? The place was actually huge.

Stiles was the only human there. Jackson had made a big fuss about not being allowed to bring Lydia, but Stiles was _the exception_ because he wasn't anyone's boyfriend, he was just…part of the pack. There was a difference, apparently.

Currently, it was midday on the first day of pack-movie-weekend. Each person picked a movie to watch and they'd only gotten through Isaac's choice—"The Boondock Saints"—before everyone was hungry. Erica made a bunch of sandwiches—PB&J's, of course—and the kitchen was a crowded mess of wolfie bodies scrambling for food. Once would think they had never eaten before.

Stiles stayed to the side, not wanting to get trampled by any of his friends. As they slunk off to the living room to start Erica's movie—it was surprisingly not a chick flick, which Stiles had made a joke about and then gotten a painful punch in the shoulder for saying—Stiles pushed himself away from the doorway to the hall next to the stairs, and walked toward the island in the middle of the room. Derek was still there, having to make his own sandwich because his pack had taken all the ones already made.

They had almost gone through an entire container of peanut butter.

"Do werewolves have allergies?" Stiles asked randomly, pressing his palms against the counter and watching Derek carefully spread peanut butter across a piece of bread. It was sort of hilarious how he had to make sure every spot of bread was covered and it wasn't just all piled in the center.

Derek huffed and didn't answer.

"Like, a food allergy? Is there a werewolf out there somewhere who is allergic to peanuts?" Stiles pressed.

Derek rolled his eyes and picked up the other slice of bread. "No. We…we can't get drunk either…and I'm pretty sure drugs don't do anything. We heal, Stiles," he said, as if he was talking to a kindergarten student and not a seventeen-year-old boy.

"Okay, okay, I get it," Stiles said, putting up his hands, palms out. "Ask a stupid question, get a stupid answer."

"You think my answer was stupid?" Derek glanced up from the jar of jelly.

Stiles' eyebrows shot up. "W-what? No, maybe a little condescending, but not stupid, no," he shook his head one too many times.

The corner of Derek's mouth quirked up in amusement as he finished spreading the strawberry jelly and pressed both sides of the sandwich together so they matched perfectly. "Do you want one?" he asked suddenly, looking up.

"Uh…is that you offering to make me one?" Stiles ventured to ask.

Derek shook his head and pushed aside his sandwich before proceeding to make another sandwich with a little less care than the first.

"Oh my god, I have to take a picture of this: Derek Hale, making me a sandwich." Stiles took a step back and pulled out his phone and caught Derek in a glare, standing in his kitchen, knife in the jelly jar. "You didn't even try to stop me, I'm disappointed."

"There was no use," Derek replied, slapping the sandwich together and shoving it across the island on a paper plate. He wouldn't actually admit that he was grateful to his pack for being so free with taking of photos because this was a new chapter of life in another version of his old house and this was his family now and taking photographs was a thing families did.

Stiles shrugged. "Whatever you say, Sourwolf." He dodged a halfhearted swipe from Derek and grabbed his plate. He turned and took a step toward the open doorway to the living room when Derek growled behind him. He turned around and saw Derek standing there, glaring down at the sandwich on his plate, his other hand hanging in the middle of the air, a bit of peanut butter on the skin between his thumb and index finger.

"Dude, I didn't know you were so OCD about keeping your things in order considering the mess of a house you've been living in," Stiles said with a roll of his eyes.

Derek looked at the peanut butter on his hand like it was the grossest thing that had ever touched his skin.

"Oh my _god_," Stiles exclaimed, walking over to him. "For an Alpha, you are a serious wimp. It's just peanut butter, Derek."

He didn't know what compelled him to do it, but without thinking Stiles reached forward with his free hand and grabbed Derek's wrist, proceeding to lick the peanut butter off of his's hand.

_Lick the peanut butter off of his hand._

He was licking food off of Derek's hand.

He was licking Derek's hand.

He was licking Derek Hale.

_Fuck._

Stiles froze, put his tongue back behind his teeth, straightened his back, and, slowly, he met Derek's eyes. Derek just raised his eyebrows and then glanced at his hand. Stiles was still holding his wrist. Stiles swallowed, let go and took a step back.

"Uh…I'm…sorry…for…t—_that_," Stiles stammered, cheeks flushing.

"Ugh, guys, come on!" Erica whined, looking over the back of the couch. "We're going to have to skip a movie if we don't start the marathon now!"

Glad for the distraction, Stiles rushed into the living room and sat on the floor far away from where Derek sat. Erica and Boyd were on the couch next to Derek, and Jackson, Scott, Isaac and Stiles got the floor.

Halfway through the movie there was a pile of empty plates in front of the couch and everyone was full and happy. Isaac kept making faces from where he was slouched against the base of the arm of the couch and Scott was cracking up and Jackson was annoyed and Erica was curled up using Boyd's shoulder as a pillow. Almost simultaneously, Stiles looked over his shoulder and Derek glanced down at where Stiles was sitting.

There was this awkward moment where finger-licking memories overtook Stiles' mind and he was thankful to Scott for moving, elbowing him in the ribs and breaking his concentration on Derek and his stupid perfect face.

.3

Stiles' cheek was pressed against Derek's shoulder, and he was muttering all sorts of things that didn't make sense. Derek didn't know how he ended up the one carrying Stiles piggyback home, but he didn't really mind. Stiles was heavy and stank of beer, but he was warm and soft, too.

The Sheriff was working, so Derek didn't have to worry. He had taken away Stiles' keys earlier when Derek realized Stiles was going to end up drunk and used them to unlock the door. He stepped inside and closed it with his foot, a deadly echo in the empty house.

"Oh hey, it's my house," Stiles squeaked.

Derek didn't say anything, just moved through the dark house and up the stairs to Stiles' room. The lamp on his desk was on, dimly illuminating the room.

"Why are we at my house?" Stiles whispered.

"You're drunk," Derek said shortly, letting go of his hold on Stiles, who fell onto uneasy feet. Derek grabbed his arm and made sure he fell onto the bed and not the floor.

"I am not drunk," Stiles protested into his mattress.

Derek gave an unseen flash of a smile and bent down to pull off Stiles' shoes. "Of course not."

"Hey, I heard that…sarcasm." Stiles flung back an arm, which Derek caught. Stiles' arm slipped out of the jacket sleeve and Derek pulled him over onto his back to pull off the jacket completely. Stiles' world swam. "You…are mean, Derek. You…have a nice face though."

Derek almost snorted, laying the jacket over the back of the desk chair. He could have just left then—should have—but found himself, instead, sitting on the edge of the bed.

Stiles' face was flushed and heart was beating out a steady slow rhythm. "You are a Meaniewolf," he said seriously, eyes wide and staring.

"What happened to Sourwolf?" Derek could barely resist the urge to touch…to put his hands anywhere on Stiles, even just press the side of his hand against Stiles' ribcage…

"You're a Meanie-Sourwolf," Stiles corrected himself, lifting a hand. Derek expected a sluggish act to follow, but Stiles had some good motor skills whilst intoxicated. Instead of being slapped across the face, Stiles' hand came down gently against Derek's face. "A Meanie-Sourwolf with a prickly face. But you smile more lately. It's nice."

That was it for coherent-Stiles. His eyes drifted closed and his hand brushed across Derek's mouth; fingertips grazed over his lips in a nice way that made Derek close his eyes for a moment before coming to his senses. Nothing good would happen if the Sheriff came home to find Derek in his drunken son's room.

Derek took one last look at Stiles—a longing look, though he wouldn't admit it—and he couldn't help but brush his thumb over Stiles' lips before forcing himself out of the room. He locked the front door, left Stiles' keys on the table there, and slipped out the back door.

+1

It was during the school year and it was getting chilly. But hey, it was California, so it didn't get too cold, even in the winter. It was a Saturday. Isaac and Jackson were at lacrosse practice—which Stiles was skipping—and Scott was at work and Boyd and Erica were on a date. The Sheriff was working, so Stiles was practically alone and video games weren't holding his attention. He got into his Jeep and drove the familiar route up to the Preserve.

The trees were beginning to lose their leaves and the forest looked oddly bare in the midmorning light. He was so used to seeing the forest when it was dark and sort of misty and creepy looking. During the day it looked like some sort of iconic Thomas Kinkade painting or something.

Stiles pulled up to the _new_ Hale house. He was finally accustomed to seeing the house with actual walls and paint and windows, since he had grown so accustomed to seeing it black and broken and charred.

"Derek?" he called out, shutting the car door with a slam; it echoed through the empty woods. "Uh…Derek?"

He shoved his hands into his pockets and hopped onto the porch. Peering inside the living room window, Stiles saw nothing.

Turning around, he began to wander. It was during the day, and he didn't have to worry about the kanima coming out of nowhere to kill him or something, since Jackson was like, cured or whatever of that whole debacle.

He hunched his shoulders against a quick, cool breeze and almost tripped on a tree root covered by leaves but managed to windmill his arms and steady himself before—

"What are you doing?"

It was Derek, and he was suddenly _there_, causing Stiles to slip and fall on his ass. Great.

"Holy—Derek! Don't do that, Jesus Christ," Stiles muttered, pushing himself to his feet.

Derek didn't look happy. He wasn't even frowning, his face was just set in a stoic sort of way that Stiles took as him being pissed the fuck off.

"I asked what you're doing," Derek repeated.

Stiles suddenly got flashbacks to when Derek had first come back to Beacon Hills and found him and Scott in the woods. "Uh…looking for you," Stiles frowned, running a hand over his hair. "Everyone else is busy and you're never busy so I figured—"

"You don't have any friends?" Derek snapped.

"Uh, not since they were all turned into werewolves…no, not really," Stiles said, setting his face in a serious way (he hoped).

Derek narrowed his eyes. "What did you think was gonna happen here?"

Stiles raised his eyebrows. "Uh, who's Mr. Sourwolf today? You, that would be _you_, Derek. Look, I decided to come here on my own time on a Saturday to hang out with you. You don't have to be a jerk about it." Right, he had better things to do. He turned to leave, even took a few steps, then Derek's hand fell on his shoulder, stopping him.

"Fine. What did you want to do?" Derek grumbled, taking his hand back and hiding it in his jacket pocket.

Stiles shrugged. "You're in a shitty mood, so, fresh air, a splash through a creek: all sounds pretty romantic," he jabbed, flashing a grin and stepping around Derek, heading back the way he had been walking, which was the opposite direction—he thought—of Derek's house.

Derek fell in step beside him.

"So…why such a bad mood?" Stiles asked, glancing over.

Derek let out a breath through his nose. "No reason."

"No reason my ass." Stiles bumped shoulders with him, the way he did when he was trying to get something out of Scott. "No one else is around to hear. My lips are sealed. You know I'm good with the secrets."

Derek was silent and Stiles regretted bringing it up. After a pause, Derek said, "It's Laura's birthday. Wait…it's not…she just liked to celebrate it today."

_Ouch._ Of course it would be family things. It was always family things with Derek. Stiles sucked in a breath.

"Oh…that sucks? No wait, why does that suck? Birthdays are great, man, they're the good days. Of all the days to feel shitty, it's not birthdays. Believe me, I know." And he did. He and his dad always did something special on his mom's birthday. Because birthdays were happy days. Death anniversaries were the days to get sad over.

Derek looked over at Stiles. Really looked, not just a glance. It caught Stiles off guard and neither of them realized they had stopped walking and were just sort of staring, like when you're walking along a path and suddenly a deer appears and both of you freeze and stare at each other and the world seems to stop.

Then Stiles blinked, breaking the spell. "What? Is there something on my face?"

Derek tilted his head to the side and furrowed his eyebrows for a split second before turning and taking a step. "Only your face," he replied.

"Oh-ho-ho, sarcasm is back," Stiles said, leaping into place beside the werewolf.

Derek rolled his eyes and they walked in silence for a few steps.

"Are you feeling any better?" Stiles asked, not being able to handle any sort of silence, even though it wasn't as awkward with Derek as it was with other people.

"I liked it better when you were quiet."

Stiles snorted. "I don't believe you, man. Not at all."

Derek glared and Stiles grinned.

"See, you'll never admit it, but I make you feel better," Stiles teased, throwing an arm around Derek's shoulders. Surprisingly, Derek didn't stop short or toss him into a tree.

"What are you doing?" he growled out instead.

Stiles frowned. "I've been watching the Animal Planet like crazy…"

"Stiles," Derek warned.

"Just shut up, I'm trying to make you feel better," Stiles said seriously. Their walk slowed to a shuffle and Stiles pushed himself up on his toes so he could still walk _and_ smoosh his face against Derek's. Which is what he did. He pressed his cheek against Derek's scratchy face and let out a laugh when Derek froze and stiffened.

"What are you doing?" Derek asked through clenched jaw.

"Why? Are you not comforted by snuggles and nuzzles, Derek?" Stiles teased, putting his free hand on the other side of the werewolf's face so he couldn't wiggle away.

"What are you, five?" Derek grumbled, face a picture of pure sourwolf.

Stiles rolled his eyes and rubbed his cheek against Derek's scruff. It was like snuggling with a brillo pad. A warm, rumbling brillo pad. "Don't wolves like—"

"I'm not a wolf, I'm a werewolf, there's a difference." Derek's voice was deeper than usual.

"Right, but it's practically the same," Stiles insisted. "Except that you are…a dude…also." With that, Stiles took a step back, face tingling. He straightened out his jacket and shrugged, taking a step back. "But you and the pack are always so close all the time, so I just figured…" He shrugged again and turned around, starting to walk away to the nearby creek.

"You shouldn't have done that," Derek said suddenly, gripping Stiles' wrist and jerking him back.

Stiles' eyebrows rose and he looked back at Derek. He let out a little gasp of breath as Derek grabbed his shoulders and backed him up against a tree. "Uh…what are you doing?" he asked, voice tight. His heartbeat skyrocketed and he swallowed.

Derek stepped closer, one foot between Stiles' and pressing him firmly back against the tree.

"Okay, could you use some words, because I can't tell if you're going to kill me or rip my clothes off," Stiles babbled, palms pressed against the rough treebark because he didn't think he could keep himself calm if he put his hands on Derek just then.

"I can smell…you're not scared, you know I'm not going to hurt you," Derek said, voice taking on a husky tone.

"That is so…not sexy," Stiles forced out. "That is creepy, Derek, _creepy_."

"Shh, be quiet for two seconds, Stiles."

Derek's eyes fell and he leaned close, nose and lips hovering above the soft skin of Stiles' neck. Even through his heart beating manically and his body heat rising to the surface, Stiles could feel Derek's breath.

Stiles thought he was imagining it, but he swore Derek's lips brushed across his skin before Derek was looking at him, eyes intense and a little bit wild. Stiles' hands happened to be hanging out on either side of Derek's waist because they had just found their way there somehow.

"Are you ready?" Derek asked, in a tone that would have normally been used to ready someone whose arm was about to get popped back into socket.

Which was strangely sexy. "Rock my world, Sourwolf," Stiles said, for no reason in particular but it was the only sentence his mind was able to come up with at that moment.

And Derek did. His hands fell against Stiles' neck in a non I-could-snap-your-neck feel, thumbs pressing against his jaw, tilting his head the right way so Derek could kiss him properly. It was a soft kiss. Stiles was eager and wiggly though, but didn't want to ruin it so he tried to stay still and focused on not focusing. Wasn't this supposed to be a natural thing? He relaxed and pushed himself forward a tiny bit.

There was a low rumble in Derek's chest and he took the smallest of breaths before kissing Stiles' bottom lip. Stiles' fingers dug into Derek's sides and he let out a very un-manly noise just before Derek broke off the kiss and pressed his forehead against Stiles'.

"Uh…so that was—what's the matter? Are you going to like wolf-out or something?" Stiles squeaked, eyes squinting open. "Tell me you're not about to kill me, please."

The softest of laughs escaped Derek's mouth and tickled Stiles' lips. "I'm not," he replied, straightened his back and opening his eyes. He moved his hands down to Stiles' chest, gripping his jacket. "I've been wanting to do that for a while."

Stiles raised an eyebrow. "Really?" He chuckled and Derek rolled his eyes, hooking his arm around Stiles' neck and pulling him away from the tree. "Ow, ow, ow, is this an after-kissing werewolf tradition? Because I don't like it."

Derek shook his head in amusement and loosened his grip.

Stiles grinned and fake brushed off his jacket. "That's better. So…where are we going?"

"My place."

"Okay. Why?"

"Everyone is out doing things, aren't they?"

"Yeah."

"So my house is empty."

Then it dawned on Stiles. "Oh. _Oh_. Derek Hale…you make me blush."

"You're here, we might as well practice," Derek smirked.

Stiles rolled his eyes. "That's mean. How about we just watch a movie?"

Derek put his arm around Stiles' shoulders and pressed a kiss against his temple. "Whatever you want."

Stiles swatted at him before shoving him away. "Ew, stop being girlie, or I'll tell the whole pack you like to be scratched behind the ears."

"I don't like to be scratched behind the ears," Derek insisted, only to have Stiles jump on him to try it out. It ended with Derek pinning Stiles to the leaf covered forest floor in view of the Hale house.

A laugh bubbled from Stiles' lips. "Okay, okay, you win, big Alpha wolf. I won't tell anyone your secrets!"

Derek cracked a triumphant little smile and leaned down to kiss Stiles again, a bit rougher and more comfortable than before. Then he pushed himself to his feet and held a hand down to Stiles. "How about a movie?"


End file.
